


A Gamble and a Fold

by theparadoxicalfox, TrulyMightyPotato



Series: Royal Flush [24]
Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alcohol, Blood (briefly), Gen, Guns, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, The Hug You've All Been Waiting For, Threats of Drowning, unsuccessful suicide attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-06-10 21:21:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15300270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theparadoxicalfox/pseuds/theparadoxicalfox, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrulyMightyPotato/pseuds/TrulyMightyPotato
Summary: MatPat has one desperate gamble left—getting help from the Family. But all he can do is plead for help. PJ is the one who holds all the cards.





	A Gamble and a Fold

**Author's Note:**

> This one is very serious. Please pay attention to the tags. If you need a specific question answered, please direct it to royalflushstories.tumblr.com where we can answer it before you read.

_ Saturday, May 10, 1924 _

MatPat sat on his bed, his head buried in his hands, painfully aware of the long-cold area where Steph used to sleep. He wasn’t sure what he was doing in their room, since he’d deliberately taken to sleeping in the guest room to avoid these kinds of reminders, but he’d woken up in their bed. Last night was a dim haze of sifting through notes, and drinking to keep the despair of finding nothing new at bay.

But it was morning, now. He was awake and aware. Yet again forced to face the truth, just like every morning.

It was May.

Steph had been gone for six months.

_ Six months. _

And MatPat hadn’t been able to find her. What kind of detective was he, that he couldn't even find his own wife?

A useless one, that's what.

He was out of options now, wasn’t he? He’d hit dead end after dead end, exhausted every lead. His suspension had been extended, which meant he  _ still _ couldn’t use the resources the precinct had to try and find her.

And Gar was just as missing. His case had just as many dead ends. Sure, objectively, there was more hope. He’d only been gone for five months, but...

It didn’t matter when MatPat didn’t have any way of finding them.

Skip wiggled between MatPat’s arms and settled on his lap, meowing softly.

MatPat sighed and obediently gave Skip soft pets, staring hollowly at his bedside table. All he had left was a cat, who, as much as MatPat loved him, probably just saw him as a food supply.

Skip jumped off MatPat’s lap—and onto the bedside table, knocking over the lamp there, setting the nearly empty bottle of good bourbon tottering, and sending a face-down picture frame skittering to the floor.

More out of habit than anything, MatPat bent down to pick it up, cursing as the shards of glass sliced into his fingers. Then he froze, ignoring the steady drip of crimson onto the carpet, and stared at the photo.

It was his copy of their wedding picture.

He and Steph had been so young, even though it really hadn’t been all that long since they were married. It had been just before the war, just before they were torn apart by miles and horrors. There had been times MatPat had wondered if he’d ever get to see her again, or if some horrible thing would happen and he would end up dead, despite being in the communication and code units, and not actually out in the fighting.

Kind of… as it was now.

MatPat sighed, putting the picture back on the nightstand, and stared down at the blood glistening on his fingers. The colour was startlingly vibrant.

This time, though, he had no idea where she was.

What was he going to tell her parents? He’d already told them she was kidnapped, that she was missing... but they still had hope he’d be able to find her. Or maybe they’d given up, like the rest of them. They’d been quiet about it over their last phone call.

He’d failed them.

He’d failed them, and Steph, and Gar.

He’d failed his family.

MatPat paused, looking at the wedding picture again.

Family.

A long ago conversation with Steph tickled his memory.

They’d been discussing extended family, and Steph had admitted not all of her family was as amazing as her parents. She’d had an uncle who’d been wrapped up in Boston’s Italian mafia—and who’d been rising through the ranks pretty fast, the last she’d heard. She’d never actually talked to him, but rumors had it he’d been the godfather at one point.

Though, as MatPat recalled the funeral invite he’d gotten for said uncle back at the start of December, if her uncle had been the godfather, he certainly wasn’t now.

But...

Maybe?

MatPat stared at his hands, then swallowed. He’d have to contact the Liguori family, ask for help, but...

Perhaps Steph was still family for them? Perhaps, they would help?

He’d probably have to sell his soul to the mafia and whoever the new godfather was, but... for Steph, it would be worth it.

He picked up the bottle of bourbon. It was one of the last bottles he and Steph had decided to keep; they’d only brought it out once or twice, for special occasions. It had lasted him a good few months, unlike the rest of the alcohol.

Well, this was a special enough occasion, MatPat decided as he downed the remainder. Then he stood and headed for the stairs. He had work to do.

\-----

The house was quiet tonight, PJ mused bitterly. A good thing for him, or he’d constantly have people telling him to rest—especially Jordan and Wiggles. Of course, they’d been the ones with him the most, in the past few days, and they’d been the only reason he hadn’t tried to tear Boston apart brick-by-brick to find Sophie.

Mir was going to pay for taking her, and he would get her back. That was a fact.

In the meantime, though...

PJ sighed and turned his pacing to take him to his room. He didn’t want to rest, not until Sophie was safe.

But he had the Family to think about. He had to be rested; he had to have energy for them. Jordan had promised he had his  _ soldati _ out looking for Sophie, so it wasn’t like nothing was being done.

It wouldn’t be easy to rest, not while worrying about Sophie, but PJ would do it.

At least Sophie was likely making Mir’s life awful. The thought made PJ smile. She wasn’t one to just give in. And since she hadn’t shown up dead on anyone’s doorstep, she must still be alive.

Things would work out. He had to believe that, even though it was getting harder every day.

Before PJ actually reached his room, though, Gunner ran up to him with a panicked look on his face.

“What’s wrong?” PJ asked calmly, though his own heart had started racing.

“There-” Gunner leaned on his knees, gasping for air. “Detective Patrick. He’s here.”

PJ raised an eyebrow.

“Does he have anyone with him?”

“No.” Gunner shook his head. “He’s all alone. Still outside. Said he wanted to talk to you.”

“To me?”

“He didn’t ask for you by name, just- He said he wanted to talk to ‘the godfather’.”

“I see.” PJ examined Gunner, quietly running over scenarios in his head. “Who’s here right now?”

“Me and Bryan.”

“Go get him. I’ll stay here.”

“Go get... Bryan? Or the detective?”

“Bryan.” PJ tilted his head. “Though I will have you fetch Detective Patrick momentarily.”

“But what if he’s here to arrest us?”

PJ shrugged.

“Then we kill him.”

“But- Peej, he’s a detective.”

“We’ve killed plenty of detectives before.” PJ leaned against the wall. “Go on. Let’s not keep him waiting too long.”

It only took a moment for Gunner to get Bryan, at which point PJ headed to his office with the order for Bryan to stand guard and Gunner to bring Detective Patrick.

\-----

MatPat was honestly a bit surprised that the young man who opened the door didn’t seem at all concerned he was here. Either he didn’t know who MatPat was, nor his reputation... or they were planning something.

MatPat followed as bidden, though, and every step he took into the house was a reminder that he was being taken deeper and deeper into someone else’s domain. He didn’t have any power here. Not as a detective, and not as Matthew Patrick.

The young man led MatPat to an unassuming door and closed it behind him.

The room was surprisingly large for an office—and it clearly was an office, with its every surface strewn with papers, and shelves of books at every wall—and behind the desk sat the chair occupied by a very tall, somewhat familiar man.

PJ Liguori.

“I have to admit, I wasn’t expecting to see you,” MatPat said slowly, though his mind was already churning with thoughts. Did this mean Kjellberg was involved in the mafia somehow? Or was it just a coincidence that they’d both been invited to that long-ago poker game? What else was this unassuming man involved in, if he ran the mafia here?

PJ raised an eyebrow and simply gestured for MatPat to take a seat.

MatPat complied, hating how Liguori’s gaze seemed to be taking him apart, judging him.

“Tell me, Patrick, why are you here?” Liguori asked simply, folding his hands on his desk.

“I was hoping you could help me.” MatPat tried to hide his nerves. Liguori wouldn’t be the godfather without good reason, especially being younger than MatPat himself, so he was certainly more dangerous and skilled than he looked. Being obviously nervous wouldn’t help him.

Liguori just tilted his head slightly, hopefully an indication for him to continue.

“I need help finding my wife.”

It took all of PJ’s efforts to keep a neutral expression, even as his heart seemed to stop beating in his chest.

Detective Patrick’s wife was missing?

“She was taken from our home six months ago and I haven’t been able to find her.”

PJ silently cursed, heart aching for the other man. Sophie had been gone for a matter of days, and he was ready to destroy Boston to find her. The thought of her missing for  _ half a year _ with no signs of her was just... PJ didn’t think he could handle that. Clearly, if Patrick’s gaunt, haunted face and all-too-thin frame was anything to go by, the detective hadn’t been handling it too well himself.

“And how do you think I can help with that?”

PJ had to admit it: he was curious. But dealing with a detective was dangerous, even more so when it was one as sharp as Matthew Patrick. Especially considering this was the man who had been hunting down Freddy’s—it could even be argued he was the reason Mark was dead.

Detective Patrick spread his hands.

“Stephanie was a Cordato. That name must still mean something, here. She’s  _ family. _ ” His swallow was audible. “You’re my last hope. I’m willing to do anything at this point.”

There was something distinctly unsettling about Liguori’s gaze, MatPat decided, like the man was willing to burn a hole through him and leave him for dead. Like nothing would get in the way of his goals, even if he had to destroy Boston to accomplish them.

It was far too familiar an expression after Nate had become police chief.

Patrick had clearly been putting a lot of effort to remain appearing calm, but the longer PJ stared him down—stared down the man who’d caused the death of one of PJ’s best friends—the deeper his facade cracked.

Patrick was clearly scared. Desperate, and losing hope so rapidly PJ could practically see it slipping out of him.

Some part of PJ wanted to help, out of sympathy of knowing how much it hurt to have your significant other torn away from you, but most of him did not.

Matthew Patrick was responsible for the death of Mark Fischbach. He was responsible for so much agony among PJ’s closest friends.

Matthew Patrick was a detective, a man of the law, and an outsider, and would not hesitate to destroy the Family if he was given the opportunity.

Matthew Patrick was a broken man, desperate for any opportunity he could reach.

And that meant he could be useful, one day. But he wasn’t broken enough for that. He wasn’t quite ready to do  _ anything _ —not yet. The detective could be dangerous to the Family, if he was taken in now. He couldn’t let one man’s wellbeing jeopardize the Family’s.

PJ would not help him find his wife.

Something seemed to shift in Liguori’s eyes, and before the intimidating man even opened his mouth to speak, MatPat knew what the answer would be.

“The late godfather was the last Cordato to be Family. You will find no help here, Detective Patrick.” Liguori leaned forward, his hard expression burning, destroying, whatever hopes MatPat had left.

MatPat wanted to protest, but Liguori clearly wasn’t done.

“And if you value your own life, and any future chances you have of finding your wife, you will not breathe a word about this meeting to anyone.”

Liguori said the words with such calm certainty that MatPat hadn’t the slightest doubt: if he even so much as thought about it, he’d end up in the river with a pair of cement boots.

MatPat had no reason to let PJ’s secret slip. He also didn’t care much if he lived, although drowning wouldn’t be his choice way to go.

So he dipped his head, stood, and left.

\-----

Wiggles almost didn’t recognize the man rushing out of the headquarters, and blinked when he realized the obviously-broken man was Detective Matthew Patrick.

What was he doing here?

PJ emerged from the office, looking more tired than Wiggles was okay with, and sort of shrugged at Wiggle’s questioning look.

“His wife is missing. I denied him help.”

“Ah.”

That wasn’t good.

\-----

PJ flopped onto his bed with a sigh and stared up at the ceiling.

Maybe he should have sent Patrick to Molly. Though, considering she’d been trying very hard to protect Freddy’s from the detective, PJ honestly wouldn’t be surprised if she was the person to take Mrs. Patrick. If that was the case, it was a good thing he hadn’t.

PJ rolled over and hugged his pillow. What was done was done. It was time to get some rest.

\-----

Wiggles made sure PJ was asleep, and Gunner and Bryan occupied, before he picked up the telephone. He wasn’t supposed to call this number very often, but... all things considered, he felt it was important enough.

“Hey, Brock,” he said softly when the line finally connected, “I need you to do something for me.”

“It’s nearly two in the morning,” Moo murmured sleepily. “Guessing it’s important.”

“Detective Matthew Patrick. We need him alive.”

“Is he in danger?” Moo sounded more awake now, more alarmed.

“I think so, yeah. From himself.”

A long pause.

“Okay.” Moo sounded determined. “I’ll go make sure he doesn’t do anything permanent.” He paused. “I think I know where I can find help, too.”

\-----

He was a goddamned, useless failure.

MatPat had failed to get help from the last resource he could have possibly tried.

So he buried his head in his hands, rest his forehead against the steering wheel, and tried to cry. What kind of man was he, what kind of  _ husband _ was he, if he couldn’t even find  _ his own wife. _

Liguori had asked if MatPat valued his own life, and the answer was no.

Not if he couldn’t find Steph.

MatPat finally moved to get out of the car—the neighbors would start investigating if he sat there for too long—and the heavy weight of his revolver, still buried deep in his overcoat pocket, whacked him in the leg.

With every step he took to go inside, the weight pulled on him more and more.

If he couldn’t live without Steph, why should he live at all?

MatPat closed the door to his house, and didn’t bother turning the lock. The house was cold, but it always was. He kept his windows on the first floor open now, so Skip could leave should MatPat not return one night.

He pulled out his gun, placing it on the table before him.

A small scoff escaped him when he spotted a familiar face next to his revolver: that of a politely smiling PJ Liguori. MatPat picked it up, along with a couple of torn newspaper articles talking about Liguori he’d cast aside, and pinned them to his wall, next to the funeral invite.

He sank onto the couch, and stared at his gun.

Who would really miss him if he just... pulled the trigger? Jason was gone. Stephanie was gone. Gar was gone. Nobody from work had come visiting since his suspension. Entoan didn’t count, that had been pure coincidence. They clearly didn’t miss him. His friends had never initiated contact, so he obviously wasn’t as important as he thought he was in their lives.

No, nobody needed him here. He was worthless, and it had taken him too long to realize it.

No matter. He could fix that now.

MatPat picked it up and turned the gun over in his hands, then sighed. He checked the chambers, and clicked the cylinder shut.

He might as well get it over with.

He closed his eyes, settling his hand into the familiar grip of his pistol. The muzzle was raised to his temple. Two clicks: the revolver was cocked. He breathed in—the last breath he’d take—and his finger tightened-

“Matthew?”

MatPat opened his eyes, only to see none other than Thomas Sanders standing in front of him, poorly disguised panic written plainly across his face.

He hadn’t even heard the door open.

“Matthew, come here.” Sanders crouched next to him, putting a hand on his shoulder, eyes searching MatPat’s. “Give me the gun.”

MatPat couldn’t find it in himself to move, let alone reply. His next breath was far too loud in his ears. He hadn’t meant to take another breath.

“Here,” Sanders murmured, pulling the gun out of MatPat’s hand and carefully setting it aside, “you’ve been alone in this house too long. You’re moving in with me until you’re doing better.”

MatPat was stiff and still—until a dam broke inside of him and he pitched forward, sobbing.

Sanders hesitated, then pulled him into a hug and murmured soothing words.

“It’ll be okay, Matthew. It’ll be okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> That one is the roughest of all of the short stories, I think. None of the rest get quite so dark, and most of them are actually fairly optimistic. So congratulations on getting through this one.
> 
> See ya in two weeks!


End file.
